During the power crisis in the state
an almost regular outage sweats us awake
as the day breaks, and our puny room freezes
the summer even this advance. I place
my daughter in front of the lone pane,
“See, the sun is a coin. The sky is a scratch-card.
Our luck wiggles, some early worms.
The blind blaze whites it away.” A few crows caw.
Nothing else sits on the chocke berry tree.
“More power to us.” My lips move as if they speak
fluent Nina Simone. A station wagon in my
neighbours’ yard rusts away. All these must
transform into some energy. I fail to recall the theory.
Picture Nick Victor